Of course, it is difficult. First I broke the home that was your heart. Now I'm seeking shelter in its debris.

I tell you that the only way to return to where it was, to where we were, is to pick the pieces, piece them together, bringing our home back to life. You say you don't need my help. Or someone else's help. You can pick the debris on your own. You don't trust me anymore. What if I break it again? I tell you that I won't break it. Now that I'm building it from scratch, I value it more. You dismiss my plea.

You say you have nothing but indifference for me. I wish I were there inside while breaking it for the first time, only to be crushed under its weight. To not feel like this anymore. To be dead.

- Shambovine